


demons chasing me

by xnowimnothing



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - No Band, Anal Sex, Angst, Demons, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 11:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xnowimnothing/pseuds/xnowimnothing
Summary: John's been having severe mood swings. Tim is a demon.





	demons chasing me

It’s cold outside. The wind hits against John’s closed windows, the only external sound he can hear. 

He’s sitting at the corner of the bed, arms around his knees, head resting on them. 

He’s crying. His sniffles fill the dark, empty room as the tears wet his face, his head throbbing, his lips quivering. 

He doesn’t know what is going on. His life is going just fine, he has a job, okay relationships, an apartment, a local band, two cats. What else would he need? What is this huge weight on his chest that keeps him from breathing? 

He can’t wrap his head around it. It doesn’t make sense. 

John’s a happy guy overall. Really, he can say it. It’s just that sometimes he gets these waves of random yet extremely intense despair, making him spiral down, ripping him open from within. It’s happened on and off for months now. And it’s been increasing in frequency. He’s been thinking about seeing a mental health counselor; maybe there’s a mental illness or something lying underneath. He hugs his knees tighter at the thought. 

He finishes sobbing and blows his nose, the tissue resting on the mattress next to him. He lies down in fetal position. He feels like a zombie, empty and light-headed, a drilling sensation in his temples. 

He lies there for what feel like hours. Then, when he’s a little more energized, he gets up, goes to the kitchen and makes himself herbal tea. 

He sits down by the table when it’s done and starts sipping it slowly. He focuses on the way the edge of the mug feels against his lower lip, the way the drink embraces the tip of his tongue, the way it makes his insides all warm. It feels nice. He’s holding the mug with both his cold hands, absorbing its warmth, when one of his cats comes by, snuggling against John’s feet and meowing. John takes it in his lap and pets it, tasting his tea. 

His despair is only a memory for now. 

*** 

A week passes by. A windy, cold week. The routine is always the same. Work in the morning, rehearsals in the afternoon for his band’s gig in the weekend, hanging out with his friends and some dates by night. 

It’s Sunday night. The hole in his chest has appeared again. 

He curses himself for not taking the doctor appointment yet. The ugly thoughts in his mind make his head spin, he can’t stop thinking about them no matter how hard he tries. He feels like he’s going insane. 

An energy spreads throughout his whole body and it’s an awful, destructive one. He’s angry, but he can recognize no trigger. He wants to destroy things. He needs to take this energy out of himself. It doesn’t matter how, or why, he just has to. 

Yet, he feels trapped inside his own body. He doesn’t know what to do, the emotions becoming overwhelming, too intense, too much; everything is too much, and he bursts into tears. 

He just bursts into tears. 

He cries and cries, his soul torn apart, the weight in his chest not letting him breathe. 

He cries until he’s calm again and his head hurts. 

And the despair finally dissolves. 

*** 

The next windy, cold Thursday evening he’s sitting in the mental health provider waiting room, alone. 

The time has come. 

He’s jittery, ripping the cuticles off his fingers with his teeth and bouncing his leg. A million thoughts of different nature cross his mind. He thinks that everyone must feel this way, that he’s making a big deal out it and shouldn’t be here in the first place. He also thinks that the memory of his last episodes gives him a lot of anxiety. He thinks that he doesn’t want to be on medication. What if they put him on medication? Would he feel like a zombie twenty-four seven? Would he still be able to play guitar? Well, duh, of course he’d be. How many musicians on drugs does he know again? 

He breathes in deeply, gets up and starts pacing around. He stops in front of a bulletin board and reads every paper on it, one by one, public service announcements and communications and phone numbers and the names of the different doctors operating in the facility. 

He sighs. 

The anxiety is making him nervous, and he startles when he hears the wind shutting the windows close next to him. He puts his hand against his chest, closing his eyes, cursing under his breath. 

All of the other windows are closed, but he can still feel the wind blowing in his bones and on his face. At first, he thinks that there must be some draft in the room, a draft that they need to fix as soon as possible if they want their patients to survive and not catch colds. But then the light flickers. 

And then it’s completely dark. 

“Hello?” John calls, but he can’t hear a single sound resembling human presence. It’s very odd, because he’s pretty sure he interacted with someone when he got there - he’s positive it was a secretary who told him to sit in the waiting room, for example. 

“Hello?” he calls again. 

Nothing. He’s not even sure he’s indoors any more, the cold wind penetrating his skin, darkness all around him. 

The wind is getting stronger and stronger, so strong it could throw John to the ground. He tries to get out of the building hurriedly, and it turns out to be quite easy because the wind was pushing him towards the exit. He felt like he was being  _ pulled _ towards the exit. 

The wind stops as soon as he’s outside. 

John thinks the appointment is more urgent than he believed, that maybe he’s starting to have psychosis as well, and he sighs, turns around, and proceeds to enter the facility again, only to be forcefully opposed by the wind. He falls to the ground, the contrast of forces throwing him off balance. He sits up and puts his face between his hands. 

Then, the wind halts again. 

“Hey,” someone says behind him, and John turns around, getting up. It’s a blond man in a black coat. 

“I’m fine I just -” 

“It’s pretty chilly tonight, isn’t it,” the blond man cuts him off. “Look, John. I’d just stay out of the psych ward. You’re not gonna find what you need in there.” 

How the hell does he know John’s name? 

“You bet I’m gonna go admit myself  _ right fucking now _ ,” John says, exasperated, because none of this makes sense any more, because it’s bullshit, and because he’s tired of said bullshit. 

“Listen to me, John. I know something you don’t. Let me explain,” the blond man says, the last sentence coming out like a question. 

John eyes him suspiciously, staying at a distance. He’s weird. His skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, his cheekbones sharp, brow bone strong. Anyway, the most impressive feature about him must be his eyes: they’re a cold tone of blue, slightly drooping at the external edges, heavy lids covering the higher part of the irises. 

John’s face relaxes a bit. He glances at the building behind him, then at the blond man again. He sighs. 

“Okay,” he says eventually. 

There’s a park near the ward, and they sit on a bench under a tree, some lamp posts here and there lighting up the area enough for John to make out the blond man’s face. 

“I’m Tim,” the man says, “And I know you’ve had… a couple mood swings lately. Actually, I know more than that. But I don’t wanna creep you out.” 

“You’re creeping me out enough already,” John says, looking at him and shifting a little on the bench. 

“Anyways,” Tim continues, ignoring him, “You probably ain’t gonna believe me, but. I know you have those mood swings because I cause them. I can… cause mood swings in people.” 

John’s eyebrow furrows. What the fuck is going on? 

“Listen, dude. I’m either calling the police or admitting myself to the psych ward right now. Fuck. I’m losing my mind,” he says. 

Tim chuckles. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says. “Neither will help you. You just gotta listen to me. Alright?” 

Tim puts his hand on John’s shoulder. He seems calm. 

“Okay,” John says, again. 

“I’ve been… checking on you for quite some time. But when I do, your mood drops drastically and you get those episodes.” 

They stay quiet for a moment. 

“I still don’t understand,” John says, shaking his head. “Nothing of this makes sense.” 

“You fascinate me,” Tim explains. “And I like watching you. So, every now and then, I do. And since I’m not a totally benign entity, my presence influences you. Negatively.” 

He lights up a cigarette, starts smoking. John looks at his hand. 

“What are you?” John asks. 

Tim puffs out the smoke and glances at John. 

“A demon.” 

John snorts. 

“Dude, come on,” he says. “This is getting weirder and less credible by the minute. What is it that you want from me? Leave me alone.” 

He’s about to stand up but Tim grasps his arm, his grip firm, and pushes him back down. 

“I knew you would react like this,” he says, and exhales. “And I get it. But I really wanted to talk to you. To meet you.” 

John sighs and shakes his head, confused, perplexed. 

“Prove to me,” he says eventually. “Prove me what you are.” 

“I know you play guitar,” Tim says right back. “I know you’re in a local band, but you’d like to make it big. You have two cats. You have a friend called Ginger and one called Brian. You have a couple failed relationships behind… and what was the name of the girl you took on a date last night? Aria?” 

John shudders. 

“You could be a stalker for all I know. You don’t have to be… a demon to know all this.” 

Tim puts out his cigarette. 

“Okay then,” he says. “How about this?” 

He tilts his head to the side slightly, and John is staring at his face, eyes locked with his, and they don’t move, not even a bit, but everything around them starts spinning fast, and in two seconds they’re in John’s room, in his apartment, his cats by their feet, meowing. 

John is suddenly very cold. 

He gulps, looks around, and yes, this is unmistakably John’s room. 

Tim giggles and takes his coat off, revealing a white short sleeved t-shirt underneath. He throws himself on the bed, hands behind his head. 

“What, are you speechless?” 

John sits down on the edge of the bed, by Tim’s feet, arms crossed on his chest and lips shut tight. Tim observes him. 

“And maybe a little cold and a little sad too,” he adds. “Listen, John. This is what it’s about. I want you to get to know me. But there’s little I can do about these side effects. They only manifest when I do my tricks, though. They disappear if I do the normal average human things or whenever I go back to Hell and don’t interfere.” 

John’s chest goes tight as he tries to speak. 

“Why would I want any of it? I don’t want you. You’ve been ruining my life.” 

Tim laughs at that. 

“Oh, John. You don’t have to want it. You’re the human I decided to haunt. These things have never been consensual, as you can see in human literature. Ever,” he pulls his cigarettes out and lights one up. He breathes in. 

John glares at him, but a chill runs down his spine. 

"What - what do you want from me?" John says, a knot in his throat. Tim exhales. 

"Dunno yet, but I can feel myself starting to obsess over you, so… yeah, it's gonna be fun," he says, smirks, and then magically disappears, a cold wind filling the room. 

John stares at the wall in silence, despair wrapping around his heart; he feels like he does have a valid reason to be sad, this time, for a change. 

*** 

Tim watches him daily after that day. He never manifests, but John knows because of his breakdowns. 

It’s Friday night, and John has a show in less than an hour. He was never really one to have performance anxiety, but this time he finds himself locked in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, knees against his chest, stomach upside down, feeling like he could throw up any minute now. 

He knows it’s Tim. 

“Tim,” he calls, quietly. “Tim. Please. Let me play in peace. Please.” 

He gets no response. Nothing changes. 

Eventually, he does throw up. His head is dizzy when he hears a knock on the door. 

“John! Man, are you okay? We’re playing in five,” Ginger shouts from the other side of the door. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Coming.” 

John has trouble standing on his feet, his whole body is heavy; but he stands up, gets on the stage, and plays his set. He can hardly breathe throughout the show, but forces himself to move his fingers on the guitar anyway. He can’t even see, his vision blurry, his head a boulder. 

Then, when the show is over, he runs off the stage and rushes to the bar, downs many shots in a row, he doesn’t even know how many, he doesn’t even know what he’s drinking, and then goes home, drunk, alone, saying goodbye to no one. He throws up again and his throat stings. 

Then he falls asleep. 

*** 

He has a date the next day. It’s some girl he met at one of his shows, and she’s very cute. 

Work in the morning goes undisturbed, in spite of the headache from all the drinking the night before. And John is worried. He knows Tim will come at some point. Normally it doesn’t matter what part of the day it is, but fuck, he really wishes Tim would spare tonight. He doesn’t want to fuck it up with Rita. He actually believes he stands a chance with her. 

The anxiety starts building up in his guts, but it’s not as strong as it is when it’s Tim causing it. John is waiting for it, sitting on his bed all afternoon, music pumping in his headphones. But he doesn’t come. 

He doesn’t come while he’s on his way to pick Rita up, either, and when she hops in his car, all big brown eyes and long, flowy hair, all he feels is butterflies in his stomach. John is hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, Tim won’t show up today. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll let him be. 

It’s not until halfway through the date that John has to stand corrected. Everything was going perfectly fine; he was enjoying the way Rita looks at him while he speaks, and maybe Rita was enjoying him as well, she probably was, but at one point Tim comes by. Tim comes by, and John freezes, his heart shrinking. 

He excuses himself, goes to the restroom and washes his face with cold water. He braces himself on the sink, staring at his face in the mirror. He feels like punching it. But he doesn’t. He breaks down instead, face shattering in a million pieces, tears scratching his cheeks. He puts his hand on his mouth, trying to suppress his sobs; he barely recognizes his own reflection anymore. 

“Please, Tim,” he says. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

He finds himself locked in a stall, sitting on the toilet with his pants on, face in his wet hands. He doesn’t remember much of what happened, he doesn’t know how much time has passed. He suddenly remembers about Rita and then rushes back to their table, face still puffy and red. 

She isn’t there anymore. 

And John’s heart breaks, just like it did before, but this time it’s not Tim. 

He drives back home but stops at the supermarket first, buying two bottles of cheap vodka, and passes out in his own bathroom. 

*** 

John's been calling out his name when he senses him. He begs him to stop, to just go away, to leave him alone. Many times he told him to just tear his soul apart, to rip him open already; anything to just stop this gaping hole inside him from appearing. 

Tim never answers his pleads, all John gets is silence and more emotional torture, and he's been trying to stop the pain himself. He’s been drinking a lot more than he used to. He tried cutting himself once. 

Nothing really works. 

Until one night, Tim appears physically after John came back from the show with his band. John couldn’t feel him throughout the day. 

“Fuck,” John says, when he starts to perceive the familiar cold, but startles anyway when he sees him in his bed. 

“I see you’re having a hard time handling your emotions, John,” Tim says, a lit cigarette in his hand. “It’s fun. Try not to die, though, because then I’ll have to find another human to importune.” 

“Fuck you, Tim,” John says. “You’re driving me insane. I don’t know what to do. Aren’t you, like, supposed to want my soul and then fuck off?” 

“Nah, that’s boring. I like to see you suffer. It’s very amusing,” Tim brings his cigarette to his mouth. John glares at him. 

“I hate you so fucking much! You’re a monster!” John spits out. His chest goes tight. 

“Well, technically, yes,” Tim says, and he’s calm, seraphic even. It makes John even angrier. “I have something to propose, though, because I’m feeling generous. I could stop it, you know. You could live your life normally again, and it would be as if we never met. You could go on with your life. Chase your dreams like everybody else and all that shit.” 

John cuts him off. 

“What do you want?” 

Tim grins. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he looks at the cigarette between his fingers, plays with it, “and as much as I like watching you in pain, I think it would be even better to watch you in other situations.” 

“What do you -” 

“Look. I don’t want your soul. I never did. I have plenty of those. What I don’t have, is a pretty boy like you. I want your body, John. If you let me have your body, then I’ll just go away forever. And this time I won’t force you, because, you know. Demons like to be wanted as well. It feeds our narcissism.” 

John’s eyes go wide. 

“Are you really asking me to -” 

“Yes. But think about it all you want,” Tim gets up and moves closer to John, brushing his hand against his cheek. And then, suddenly, he disappears again. 

John collapses on the floor, his heart shrinking, the weight on his chest digging deeper. 

*** 

After another day or two of excruciating pain, John decides that fuck it, if fucking the demon is what he has to do to get this shit over with, then he’ll fuck the demon. He doesn’t have much of a dignity anymore anyway. And this, this is becoming unbearable. He’s starting to think that he won’t get out alive. 

So he sits down on his bed and calls out his name. Calmly, this time. And after a couple attempts, the cold wind starts penetrating his bones. 

Tim appears out of nowhere. 

“So you can hear me,” John says, glaring at him. 

“Of course I can,” Tim says, looking at his own painted nails. “I just deliberately ignore you most of the time.” 

John’s cheeks heat up and his fists clench. He wants to punch the bastard. 

“Don’t you even try touching me,” Tim warns him. “I can become intelligible whenever I please. You can’t hurt me. As a matter of fact, you can’t do anything.” 

John is tempted to punch him anyway, but he doesn’t, because deep down he knows Tim holds all the cards. He sighs deeply. 

“I thought about your offer,” he says, watching Tim light up a cigarette. “And I… I am okay with it. You can have my body,” he looks down. Tim stays silent for a moment, smoking. 

“I don’t think you understand my conditions,” he says, puffing out the smoke. “It’s not something you have to  _ accept _ . It’s something you have to  _ want _ .” 

John looks away, somewhat embarrassed, and Tim laughs. 

“Come on, dude. I know you don’t like girls only. No homo, though,” and he chuckles again, his laughter obnoxious. 

“Shut the fuck up,” John says. “I’ve never been ashamed of my bisexuality. I bet you know that.” 

“‘Course I do,” Tim brings the cigarette to his lips again and holds the smoke in, “it’s just that it’s fun to see you all upset like this.” 

“I hate you so fucking much.” 

“I know that as well,” Tim says, putting out the cigarette and dropping it on the floor. “So, what do I have to look like to have you want me? I can change my appearance, you know. Even though, frankly, I do like my current one. I almost look like an angel,” he points at his blond locks. 

John thinks he couldn’t hate him any more than he does. 

“Do you - do you really think it’s a matter of  _ appearance _ ?” John asks in disbelief. 

“So you  _ do _ think I’m hot. Interesting,” he sits down next to John on the bed. John starts to hear his own heartbeat. 

“I never said that,” he says, looking away. 

“But you do,” Tim says, and he’s smiling, amused, and John doesn’t know what he’s talking about. 

“Honestly, I’m confused,” John states. “Like, after all you put me through, do you really think I can wake up one day and be like, ‘you know what, I’d hit that Tim demon’? What the fuck?” 

“Well,” Tim says quietly. He leans closer to John, so much he makes him back up and eventually lie down on his back. Tim is on top of him. “You could start taking it into consideration right now.” 

With that, he kisses his lips softly. Then, he disappears. 

John is left with a knot for heart. 

*** 

He thinks about it. He really does. 

It’s not that Tim is  _ not _ hot. Because he kind of is, in a twisted way, maybe, but he is. It’s just that John hates him with a burning passion. 

It’s just that he’s ruining everything in his life, and does it purposefully, and does it happily. 

Why would John want it? Why would John give in to lust and annihilate himself like that? 

He can’t wrap his head around it. 

*** 

A week passes after that encounter. 

John’s not going to work and he risks his job. John’s not playing guitar and his band had to cancel the show scheduled for next weekend. John’s not seeing anyone. 

It’s only him, the toilet, vodka, and sometimes his cats filling the air with their meow’s. John can’t be bothered anymore. He barely even cares anymore. 

It’s as if Tim is always by his side, but he’s starting to think that maybe it isn’t true. Yes, of course sometimes it’s Tim; but maybe, just maybe, John has been developing clinical depression as well. Or something. 

Whatever. It’s not like he can go to the mental health provider and share his story with them without them locking him up in the ward and throwing away the key. 

John is tired. 

John is downing straight vodka down his throat the second the cold makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. 

He braces himself. 

“Tim! Tim. What is it?” 

John turns around and there Tim is, lying on his bed, hands behind his head. His face is painted, eyes encircled in black, lips bright red, lipstick smudged around his mouth. John shakes his head and rolls his eyes. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” he says, his voice dull. 

“So? No sexual desire yet?” 

“No,” John says, harsh. 

“That’s unfortunate.” 

John is quiet for a moment. 

“You said you wanted it to be consensual and all, but it does feel like an obligation, you know,” he finally manages. “You’re forcing me to want it.” 

“Feel a little under pressure?” Tim says and chuckles. “You have no choice but to want it eventually, that is true. You just gotta a find a way to find this innermost desire of yours. You already find me attractive, which is something.” 

“I’ll never get past the hate. Look what you turned me into,” John spits out, and points at himself - he hasn’t looked in the mirror for some days, but he’s positive he looks like a mess. 

“You have no idea how hot you look to me like this. You’re my ideal type of human. There’s nothing I would change about your physical appearance right now.” 

He stands up and walks closer to John, taking his face in his hand. 

“I’m a malign entity, John. You should know by now that the more you suffer, the more I enjoy it; the more miserable you look, the harder I get,” he adds and closes the distance between their faces. He licks at John’s bottom lip briefly. 

“Why don’t you just take me, then,” John says, distancing himself. “I won’t fight back.” 

“I told you why,” Tim says. “You know why. It wouldn’t be the same. I want you to feel good because of me. Lust is one of my favorite things. Even more than pain and destruction, perhaps.” 

He sits down on the bed again, looking at John with languid, hungry eyes made even more intense by the eyeliner. John swallows hard. That stare has nothing human in it. 

“You would enjoy it, you know,” Tim says, his voice soft. “Demonic dick is another thing entirely. You’d love it.” 

He simply dematerializes after that. 

John hurts. 

*** 

John thinks about it again and again the following days. He really does. 

John thinks that okay, Tim is indeed very good looking and it should be enough for him to want him; it’s not like he has to fall in love with him. 

It’s a carnal thing. It’s just sex. 

Sex with a malign entity of demonic, otherworldly beauty. 

John thinks it’s not that bad after all. 

John thinks that feelings don’t have to be involved. All he has to do is reach his orgasm and let Tim have his. That, he can do. If Tim looks at him with those eyes of his, with that stare that penetrates his soul (and as much as John wishes it was only a figure of speech it’s most likely what it literally does), then yes, maybe he could let himself go, maybe he could enjoy it. 

Maybe. Just maybe. 

The episodes still happen daily. John is fighting them less and less. 

John doesn’t dread them anymore. He knows them. He knows what to expect. They’re not as unpredictable. 

He’s growing acquainted to them. 

A week later he’s resumed his daily activities. He’s been working and he’s been playing. And when another week passes by, he figures that he doesn’t have to beg Tim for mercy. He doesn’t need to. He can take it. 

He can push himself through his crises. And he can live respectably even with them happening. 

*** 

Another week passes by. John decides to call out Tim’s name. 

Tim appears in his room, black lipstick on his lips, black eyeshadow on his lids. He walks over to John. 

“John. Long time no see. I’ve been waiting for you to call,” Tim says, tucking John’s hair behind his ear. “How have you been?” he whispers, as if he didn’t know already. 

“I’m fine. You don’t control me anymore. I’m not scared of you anymore.” 

“I noticed,” Tim says, steps back and takes his own shirt off. He has a piercing on his nipple. John’s breath hitches. “And I’m gonna be honest with you. I don’t care. I want you, John, and I want you screaming my name in pleasure much more than screaming in pain for me.” 

“You’re gorgeous,” John says, sighing. “But I still hate you.” 

“Hate me all you want,” Tim says. “Just let me do this.” 

And John doesn’t know what happens after that. 

John doesn’t know because he’s completely blinded by lust. 

John doesn’t know because his brain partly disconnects, only his senses still wired. 

John kisses Tim’s mouth. It’s more than warm, it’s hot, even, but John doesn’t mind it. Tim’s hands crawl on his body and rest on the sides of his head, keeping him in place. John lets him. He can taste lipstick on his lips. 

Then Tim unbuttons John’s shirt and touches his chest with his warm hands, pushing a little, guiding him to the bed. John sits down, Tim following suit and then kissing him again. 

“Hands and knees,” Tim whispers, palming John’s thigh, then moving his fingers to undo his pants. 

John does as he’s told, and when he’s in position, he feels Tim’s hands on his sides, pulling his clothes down forcefully. John whimpers softly. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” Tim says, mostly to himself, and John can hear Tim is getting undressed as well, but doesn’t turn to look at him. He likes surprises. 

He can also hear the sound of a bottle being opened, and one part of him is thankful, another part is puzzled as to where the bottle even came from. 

Every question soon leaves his mind though, because Tim penetrates his asshole with his hot lubed fingers, and John moans loudly at that. Tim’s other hand is on his shoulder, pulling him towards his chest. 

“You’re mine. You’re finally mine,” Tim whispers in John’s ear, and then starts sliding inside him with his cock. 

“Holy fucking shit,” John exclaims, his mouth hanging open and his eyes rolling back. Tim chuckles. 

“Told you demonic dick was something else,” Tim says as he pushes deeper into him, John already falling apart, already being ripped open from the inside. 

Tim lets John fall down on his hands again, but his arms barely hold him up. He falls face forward in the pillow, chest pressed against the mattress. 

“It’s not too much too soon, is it?” Tim asks, amused. “Shit, you’re so fucking tight.” 

He eventually finds a pace, huge cock throbbing inside of John, John crying out every time Tim fills him up to the hilt. Tim’s hands are keeping John’s cheeks apart, so hot they almost burn the skin. It’s a lot. It’s a little too much. 

But John feels particularly masochistic right now. 

“Harder,” he says, barely managing. 

Tim bursts into laughter at his audacity. He stops, pulling out till the tip. 

“You sure? You look a bit overwhelmed already,” he says, moving his hand to John’s lower back. 

“I like it rough,” John answers, struggling to even find his voice. 

“You’re gonna come like never before,” Tim says, shoving himself back in in one fluid motion, John groaning in response. “I promise.” 

He starts fucking him in earnest, drilling like a possessed jackhammer, hitting John’s sweet spot almost continuously, stimulating it just right, or maybe a little too much, or maybe it’s completely over the top. His cock is enormous, and utterly mighty, and utterly Satanic. John growls, groans, moans and screams Tim’s name, and Tim grabs a handful of his hair and pulls at it, and John screams even more. It just feels so fucking good. 

Tim keeps pounding into him at his demonic pace, his warm hands holding John’s waist tight, positively leaving red marks on his skin. John feels his orgasm approach, but turns his head just barely, just once, to see what Tim looks like when he’s like this. 

What he sees takes his breath away. Tim’s fair skin looks like it’s glowing, his eyes, smeared in black, are a deep, dark shade of blue; his black lips are slightly parted, allowing John to catch a glimpse of the pink flesh of his mouth. Then Tim bares his teeth and grits them, and now he’s almost scary, but at the same time it’s the sexiest sight John has ever seen, and no, he doesn’t look human at all. 

John can’t keep it together anymore. He feels his whole body shatter to pieces, and he comes, his neglected and untouched dick spilling cum all over his abdomen, his throat emitting the lewdest sounds. It feels like the first time, really. All of the orgasms he’s had in his lifetime were nothing compared to how  _ freeing _ this one is: absolutely overwhelming, completely wrecking, utterly  _ excellent _ . 

John feels dead after it’s over. He does turn his head to look back at Tim one more time, though: he watches him as he comes himself, his beautiful demonic visage turning into something blissful, his muscles relaxing, eyes closing, spilling his demonic seed inside of him. 

John stays dead after that, one side of his face pressed against the pillow, breathing heavily through his mouth. Tim pulls out and gets dressed. 

He doesn’t disappear then. He lies down on John’s bed next to him instead, pulling cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. 

“You know what, John,” he says, smoking. “I’m not sure I wanna leave you alone anymore. I think we’re gonna have to reconsider the clauses of our deal.” 

John turns around and glares at him. 

“As long as your cock is involved,” he says finally, then falls asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from the SKOLD song, "chasing demons"


End file.
